Chicxulub Crater
by lamentomori
Summary: "No matter how careful you are, sometimes things fall apart, they break and there is nothing you can do to fix them." A tale of two people stumbling through the shards of what was (and may be again) a relationship. Warnings: Sequel to Tail of a Comet (I'd recommend reading it first) M for Slash (Colt/Punk), smut, profanity
1. Alone and Unaware

2nd Person Colt POV Warnings: Slash, profanity

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You're busy; you're always busy these days. When you first signed with them, you had hoped you would get to see him more often than when you were out in the Indys. You got to see him whenever he was at OVW for TV tapings but when they moved their developmental program to Florida and you moved, he was never called down there. He was busy too, wrestling who knows where with ECW; he seemed to be having a good enough time with Heyman, though. A weird pairing, you thought but listening to him talk about Heyman, it was clear that he respects the man, values his opinion and Heyman seemed to be behind him. In OVW, Heyman pushed him, kept him at the forefront of the show, which is where Punk likes to be, for all his claims of humility, it's where he believes he should be. Now, Heyman is gone and he avoids talking work as much as possible. You're sure he's quickly getting frustrated with his position, Punk after all was the _man_ in ROH and with Heyman's backing, he was essentially in OVW too.

When you first told him they were changing your name, he laughed at you. "Scotty Goldman versus CM Punk doesn't have quite the same ring." He told you and you agree, you couldn't agree more if you're honest. Scotty Goldman is a jobber and he's not even a jobber in the vein of The Brooklyn Brawler, he's just a plain old jobbing jobber. He asked you why they were bothering and you didn't have a good answer. You have theories on the name changing though, theories that are unkind to the higher-ups and to him. It was their decision to let him keep CM Punk, it's not his fault that by not changing his name it brought the entire ROH smark fan-base stomping over to see what the big leagues would do with their golden boy. Still it doesn't seem quite fair that he gets to be himself whilst you're Scotty.

You had the weekend off, heading home to Chicago for a few days, even if it was going to be freezing cold there, was all you wanted to do. You sent him a message asking if he'd be able to get home for the weekend.

_Yup! I've got some news! - Punkers 18:56_

Exclamation marks and a yup from Punk filled you with excitement, a large part of you hoped he was going to tell you when you were getting out of developmental. You already know how to hip toss a guy and you sure as hell know how to apply a headlock. You have an even greater hope that he's somehow managed to convince them that Scotty Goldman is a fucking stupid name and you can go back to being Colt Cabana, though you doubt that even Punkers, silver tongue and all, would be able to convince them of that.

When you get back home, the TV's on and he's asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in the ugly blanket you bought a while back when the heating in your place was broken and you didn't have the money to get it fixed for a few weeks. The ugly blanket has been sitting folded up on the armchair since you got the money to fix the heating. He looks peaceful, all curled up, fast asleep. You haven't the heart to wake him so you click the TV off and sit beside him, gently guide him over to you, rearranging the way you're both pressed together awkwardly and carefully so that you're lying down, his head on your chest, your arms around him, stroking his back. You missed this, missed holding him, missed the warmth of his body, the smoothness of his skin, the smell of his hair. You're sure his exclamation mark deserving news can wait till you wake up from the nap you feel encroaching.

"Morning." You wake to find him sitting on the table, a cup of coffee in his hands, another steaming away beside him.

"Hey." You take the other cup and sip at it carefully, you feel groggy and still half-asleep, spending the night on the sofa wasn't a good idea, you think. "So this exciting news is?" He grins at you, the ridiculous something awesome has happened grin.

"I'm working Wrestlemania again." You nod, he worked it last year, he lost but he was there, hell, he was there for XXII, sure, it was as an extra but he was there. You've been part of Wrestlemania too, granted it was when you were sixteen and all you did was punch Hawk but you were there and very much a part of it. "In the ladder match again." You nod again; you have a feeling you know where this is going. "They want me to win!" He crows with delight, you're almost certain you've never seen him this excited.

"The money in the bank thing?" You ask try as you might to sound happy for him, his excitement isn't quite rubbing off on you. You're happy for him but you're tired and a tiny bit disappointed.

"Yup!" He doesn't seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm or is ignoring it. You set your cup down and take his from him, pull him to your lap and kiss him thoroughly; you can probably hide your selfish disappointment that way.

"Bout time, Punkers." You tell him, forcing a huge grin on to your face.

"I know!"

He was insatiable all weekend, every second he was awake, he was wrapped around you, kissing, licking, biting, sucking. You even had sex in places that weren't your bed. The shower and the sofa are tied as places you're sure you're not letting anyone else ever use again; just looking at them summons images of him to your mind, his body writhing in pleasure at your actions, his face flushed with arousal, your smile on his lips. When he left for Raw it was with a soft, lazy smile and a slight limp, you felt a little guilty but you'd both been apart for so long and you can never help but accommodate his requests and he had made so very many of them over those two days.

The next time you managed to be in the same place at the same time, for any length of time, was to watch your debut on Smackdown. Your back against the headboard, his head in your lap, both of you tangled and sprawled over the bed in some motel, one thing you'll say for the WWE, even jobbers get good rooms. The World Heavy Weight title, the Big Gold belt, is sitting on the dresser, you've been carefully not looking at it, there's no way Scotty is getting any gold, man. He's laughing so hard at your loss, the _I'm in a box_ had him laughing more than you'd seen in years, whilst you should probably be happy you've made him happy, it fills you with irrational irritation.

"It's not that funny." You tell him, shoving his head from your lap, causing him to give you an annoyed glare, you draw your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

"I thought it was supposed to be funny." He's wiping tears from his eyes. You scowl at him.

"You're an asshole." You tell him, you know you sound more annoyed than you should, it was supposed to be funny but you wanted him to, well you aren't really sure what you wanted him to do but laugh at you, probably wasn't it.

"Yeah but you love me." He sounds unreasonably smug. You scowl at him. "You love me, right?" A tiny hint of concern enters his voice if you called him on it, he'd deny it but there is an undertone of worry there. That it's there at all makes you happy, sad and annoyed, to think that he'd still doubt you, your feelings, after all this time together. You cuff the back of his head gently.

"Despite the fact you're an asshole, yes." You watch his smirk soften into your smile and straighten your legs, pulling him to you. "You're an asshole but you're my asshole, Punkers." You kiss him softly. "I love you, asshole." You nuzzle his neck and press a soft kiss to his pulse.

"Good." He pulls away from you. "I love you, too. Now, what do you wanna do to celebrate your debut?" It surprises you how easily he returns the sentiment. It also surprises you how long it's been since you've told him you loved him. When he was in OVW, you texted him a new lemon every day to make sure he remembered you loved him but once he moved up to ECW, once you got offered a contract, once you started working developmental, you were busy. You were always busy, too busy to text him, too busy to spend your time carving lemons and it would have been too difficult to explain to the people you roomed with what you were doing. You think this is probably the first time in months either of you have said I love you. You pull him back to you and rub your noses together.

"You _know_ I love you, Punkers." You place a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you so fucking much." Another Eskimo kiss. He smiles but you catch a hint of relief in his eyes. "I've a match tomorrow." You get off the bed and start undressing, he follows your lead. "So how do I wanna celebrate?" You smile at him and pull the covers back on the bed and lay down flat on your back. "I want to hold you, c'mere." You stretch your arms out to him, he looks at you confusion clouding his expression. When was the last time you just held him, didn't have sex as soon as you were alone for more than ten minutes? You think it was probably that night back in Chicago when you slept on the sofa. He settles in your arms soon enough, his head on your chest. "I miss you." You tell him, he laughs.

"Of course you miss me, I'd miss me too." The phrase sounds oddly familiar but you put it out of your mind and instead concentrate on stroking his dyed black hair, you miss the peroxide blond but he seems to be okay with the black. "You know you can call me any time, right Colt?" His voice sounds slightly off. "It's not like I sleep all that much and I miss you too, fucker." You feel something in your chest clench at his words, as though you hadn't expected him to miss you. You can't help but wonder if he misses you, why doesn't he just call you, then neither of you would miss the other. He presses a soft kiss to your chest, wraps his arms around you in an awkward and slightly uncomfortable hug. "I'm proud of you." He says and the residual irritation from earlier vanishes, like it had never been there in the first place. "I tried to persuade them that letting you keep your name was a good idea, that letting us team together was a better one but Creative are all fucking assholes." He speaks softly, his lips over your heart, brushing the skin of your chest occasionally. "Wouldn't know a good fucking idea if it choked them the fuck out." You laugh at him.

"They'd be unconscious, it's understandable." You tilt his chin, getting him to look at you. "Thanks for trying, Punkers." You brush noses with him again.

"Didn't do any good though did it?" He snaps, the look in his eyes saying _I'm sorry, I tried but I wasn't good enough_. You kiss him, stroking his hair back from his face.

"You tried, that's more than enough for me, Punkers." He looks dubious of your statement but as you keep stroking his hair, he relents and is soon smiling your smile once more. He tucks his head under your chin and you squeeze him tightly. "Move your arms, you're all pointy." You tell him, making him laugh and wriggle his arms out from under your body, to tuck his hands under his chin as he usually does when he sleeps.

"G'night Colt. Love you." You hear his voice so very soft in the quiet of the room, oncoming sleep always softening his more jagged edges.

"Good night, Punkers." You say as you keep stroking him, his hair, his back, over his shoulder, anywhere in easy reach. "Love you too." You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing for the first time in so very long, making a promise to yourself to buy some lemons at the nearest grocery store, as soon as you aren't so busy.

* * *

So this is the first chapter of the sequel to Tail of a Comet. (If you've not read it, I'd recommend taking a look, especially if you got all the way down to the author notes at the bottom, it'll explain the more odd comments in the story but mostly the lemons, if I'm honest...)

The original title of this sequel was _At the Soundless Dawn _but after my insane Art sophomores seriously got into a debate about how the World is going to end and told me the name of the impact crater for the spacerock that killed the dinosaurs and that it was probably a comet and not a meteor that caused their extinction, I couldn't resist calling it _Chicxulub Crater._ It remains soundtracked by _At the Soundless Dawn_ by the incredible _Red Sparowes_. (I listen to pretentious post-rock, I am not ashamed.) We'll be working to the same formula as Comet only difference is that all of the Colt chapters will be named after the tracks on the album, Punk likes his wrestling terms too much to part with them. Timeline is looking to be late 2000's.

Anyway! Please review if you're reading! (I'm actually getting more busy, exam and pointless English speaking contest time is rapidly approaching so writing might be sidelined, meaning I might only update every 3 days, devastating for you all I'm sure.) Reviews are to my writing muses, what a block of cheddar is to China, something they both sorely need.


	2. Paper Champion

Punk chapter: 1st person pov Warnings: Profanity, slash

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The problem with comets is they eventually have to hit something or they burn away into nothingness. It's like when I arrived here, it was with all the hype of Ring of Honor behind me, the undersized Internet darling and like a comet, I made my impact crater. Alls I have to do now is get out of that fucking hole, tooth and nail, scraping and clawing, I'll clamber out and I'll fucking show them that I am worth every fucking penny they pay me.

OVW had been an experience, I learnt so much there. I'm sure I'm the only one of the boys in the back who could in a pinch actually fucking produce the show. Paul, he was good to me, better to me than anyone else in this fucking company has been. My debut at ECW was an incredible moment, no pun intended Justin, all those people chanting my name on national fucking television but now with Paul gone, I know that any chance I had has dwindled, I can see it being ripped from me, no matter how hard I try to cling to it. CM Punk doesn't fit their mould of what a main event guy should look like. CM Punk is a mid-card prospect and if he isn't careful, he's going to be future endeavoured. I'm trying to enjoy everything I can, ticking off every milestone, all the while know that the sword of Damocles hangs over me. They couldn't make it more clear to me that they don't think I have what it takes but fuck them, I do and I will fucking prove it, as soon as I get the ball, I'm knocking it out of the fucking park.

Paul is the only reason I wasn't gifted a new gimmick, a new name like Colt, he'll never be Scotty fucking Goldman. Of all the fucking stupid shit to pull, to no let Colt be Colt, to keep the Second City Saints apart, fucking stupid. I tried to convince them that a change wasn't really necessary for Colt but _"We understand that you two did good business in the Indys, Phil. You sold out high school gym and armouries but this is the WWE. We're Sports Entertainment, not Pro-Wrestling."_ was what they told me. Now I remember when this was a fucking wrestling company, I remember when I would watch WWF and think this is what I want to do, sure it was always a bit more flashy than ROH but there should be a place for, you know, _wrestling _in a wrestling company. Fucking sports entertainment, the fuck is that anyways. A made up phrase to appease sponsors, to get away from the roided up image of the Hogans and Ultimate Warriors of the 80's. Well McMahon made his own bed there, no reason us _wrestlers_ should have to lie in it with him.

Colt, he's busy, I get that and I am not some desperate woman who's waiting for him to call but it can be days, weeks before he texts me. When I was in OVW every single fucking day, I'd get a text; every day he told me, he loved me. I honestly don't remember the last time he said it to me, I sure as hell don't remember the last time he sent me one of those fucking lemons.

You ever think that maybe, Mr Punk you should tell him that you love him first?

I _could_ tell him. I _did_ tell him and got nothing back for three days.

_Hey, how you doing? I think I'm going nuts, the Office hate me. I miss you, love you too. - Punker_s - Sent 06:11

_Hey! Im so the best at drinking beer here punkers! Youd be so disappointed in me! ;) - Cabanarama DingDong 00:58_

Three days of nothing and then a random drunken text, no return of the sentiment, so why bother?

Why indeed. Maybe he just plain doesn't love you any more, Mr Punk, you are after all an asshole.

He's busy.

Too busy for you? Too busy to tell his _partner_ that he love him?

_Hey, Punkers. I've the weekend off. You free to come home? - Cabanarama DingDong 18:53_

_Yup! I've got some news! - sent 18:56_

And I do. I got the call at five; they want me to win Money in the Bank. It _was_ supposed to be Jeff Hardy's win but if you will get yourself caught breaking Wellness policy, your push will go to someone else and that someone else is me. Ha, you don't need to worry about Mr Straightedge getting suspended for filling himself with shit. Jeff's an okay guy; he just makes the same poor choices so many people here do. They make these fucking idiotic choices just to get through their lives, it's sad. Why do this to yourself? Why squander your opportunities like that? Although I'm sure I could start charging guys for my piss, I'd make a killing, should probably ask Cabana for advice on that, King of gimmicks that he is.

It's strange to be here, in Colt's apartment and for the place not to smell of lemons. Every time we'd be here before, it was all lemon fresh, now it just smells like a place that isn't used enough, somewhere that just waiting for its people to get back. For all it's having been repaired the heating still isn't great, makes me glad for the ugly blanket. I've happy memories of this fucking thing, like the time we took it to the fucking elbow of nowhere and had this ridiculous fucking picnic on it, stone cold take away pizza and warm Pepsi, the first time we made love somewhere not a bed, the relief that no other fucker caught us I had was unbelievable.

You embarrassed to be with him, Mr Punk?

I'm embarrassed by the thought of being caught fucking halfway up a mountain, we should have gone all the way to the top to fuck, lazy fat asses, we are. Doesn't look like he's getting here anytime soon, I guess it's you and me, ugly blanket, watching TV till he gets home.

Waking up in his arms is something I miss more than I can say, there's something special about waking up feeling him holding me, his arms wrapped around me, squeezing me tight, his breathe in my hair, his snores rumbling under my ear. I miss this so fucking much, another reason I want us back together, an entirely selfish reason, is so I can have this every morning.

"Morning." Coffee and creepily watching Colt sleep, there are times I weird myself out but at least he's awake now.

"Hey, so this exciting news is?" Poor sleepy old Cabana, take your coffee and to least try to sound like you're excited and happy for me, fucker.

"I'm working Wrestlemania again, in the ladder match again. They want me to win!" Is that not fucking amazing! They're gonna give me a Championship Title! Stop looking so depressed, come on, be happy for me, fucker!

"The money in the bank thing?" You sound so tired, Cabana. I know you're still stuck down there, I'm trying to get you called up but at least pretend to be happy for me, fucker.

"Yup!" Stop stealing my coffee, fucker, you've got your own. Oh.

"Bout time, Punkers." I have missed the way you kiss me, Colt, now kiss me again.

"I know!" You look so fucking sad, so fucking disappointed, so fucking tired, so fucking much like me. If you can't be happy for me, fucker, if my success doesn't make you happy, Colt, the very least I can make your body feel good. Tag! You better fear my fucking rest holds, Life, you bitch.

All weekend fucking, I hope your cock falls off Cabana but no matter how much I'm limping, at least when I left him he was happy, I left him smiling. See that Life, Second City Saints - 2, you - 0.

I won the World Heavyweight Title on June Twenty-Third. I am the champion. I hold the belt of Ric Flair. I hold the belt of Dusty Rhodes. I am a mid-card guy holding the Championship Title. I am a Champion completely lost in the shuffle. I may as well be holding the Women's Championship for all the respect I get. The card should be built around your Titles, the Championship should be the focal point of your company, I don't buy this some people are more important that the Title bullshit, there should be nothing more important than that; otherwise what's the point in it. A title has the worth the company gives it, in ROH, the Championship belt was _the_ goal, it had more worth than any one wrestler did but right now, I'm carrying a title that is worthless. I know the Office think that I'm the one who's made it worthless but when you book your champion to look weak, it's not his fault if he looks weak.

I manage to get to be with him to watch his debut, at least _I'm in a box_ was funny.

"It's not that funny."

"I thought it was supposed to be funny"

"You're an asshole."

"Yeah but you love me." You do love me, right Colt; tell me that all this time you've not said it doesn't mean you've changed your mind. "You love me, right?" Oww, don't hit me fucker, domestic abuse much, smacking your partner is definitely illegal, Cabana.

"Despite the fact you're an asshole, yes. You're an asshole but you're my asshole, Punkers. I love you, asshole."

"Good. I love you, too." So maybe I am a little feminine at times but even the manliest of macho men need to be reminded that they're loved and he does love me, right, because he said so. "Now, what do you wanna do to celebrate your debut?" My money is on fuck Punk, it's all we seem to do these days. Don't see each other for months, meet up, have sex, go back to work, lather, rinse, repeat.

"You _know_ I love you, Punkers. I love you so fucking much." See Life, he loves me, he just said so, repeatedly, this worrying thing is ridiculous, I need to stop. "I've a match tomorrow." Off come the clothes so sex it is then. "So how do I wanna celebrate? I want to hold you, c'mere." _Hold_ me? Why? Every night we've managed to be together you've wanted to have sex, why not tonight? "I miss you."

"Of course you miss me, I'd miss me too." I miss you too but you're busy, I get it, I'm busy too. "You know you can call me any time, right Colt? It's not like I sleep all that much and I miss you too, fucker." Just call me, text me, fuck write me a letter, something, anything, Cabana, something other than how good you are at getting wasted. Talk to me, don't just tell me you miss me and do nothing about it. I miss you; I miss you so much more than you know.

Mr Punk, maybe he does know and he just doesn't care.

He said he missed me too, first even.

He's not done anything about it though, has he?

Shut up Life, I'm not talking to you right now; he loves me, he misses me, he's said so, repeatedly.

"I'm proud of you. I tried to persuade them that letting you keep your name was a good idea, that letting us team together was a better one but Creative are all fucking assholes. Wouldn't know a good fucking idea if it choked them the fuck out." I am so proud of you, Colt; I know being here, in the WWE is your dream. Sure, it's not an auspicious start but neither was mine, it'll get better; I know it will, you're too good to be stuck as a jobber.

"They'd be unconscious, it's understandable. Thanks for trying, Punkers."

"Didn't do any good though did it?" It doesn't matter how much I try Colt, I'm slowly beginning to realise, I try and I try and still I don't seem to be able to climb out of this crater I've made, I'm worried you'll get dragged down by association, Colt. I'm even more worried that you'll let me go to avoid getting dragged down too.

"You tried, that's more than enough for me, Punkers. Move your arms, you're all pointy." Fuck, I miss when you hold me like this; I miss you stroking my hair.

I think you should miss being less of a woman, Mr Punk.

Shut up.

"G'night Colt. Love you."

"Good night, Punkers. Love you too." Sometimes, I think I forget that, Colt, don't let me forget it for too long, Cabana, don't you go forgetting it either, fucker.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I'm pretty sure Punk is off here, but I look forward to your thoughts on him.

**alizabethianrose**: Not spoiling of items yet! LoL

**bitteralisa**: Slower updates do mean you'll miss less what with the lappy troubles! LoL

**InYourHonour & agd888**: Glad you're both back, hopefully you'll enjoy where we're going.

So first Punk chapter and I am more than a little concerned that he sounds off, it was a surprisingly difficult task getting this written. Please let me know what you think.

_**Reviews would be nice. :3 **_

I have become one of those people who beg for reviews... Alas and woe is me but they do keep me motivated and at this rate China will steal all my time and leave me none for writing, reviews keep this a priority for me so if you'd like more, do say so, if not well don't, I guess.


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